dead father americana
Vivien Wang

my Father, some pastor
preached the american dream:
told me blood clots red &
scarred skin white &
our dreams blue.
 
he curled our surname,
plied it from my tongue
decorticate syllables
swept beneath our feet &
told me to repent.
 
my Father was no better
than the graves from which
he snuffed dreams–
bought monotony at Costco &
loyalty by card &
gave me a buck,
called it inheritance.
 
for our bodies were flags
& the flag was a promise
& so he peeled skin:
brilliant red flesh &
silent white bone &
apostrophes between veins.
 
i found his vowels
wrenched between road
& acrid tire–
asphalt singed green &
blood coagulated crimson:
 
the kind of red that
make strangers of sons
stains our tongues,
pledges faith in what
translates for us.
 
 

                                                                                    ~ ~ ~
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